


Flying High

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, just a little hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: Greg Lestrade is about to make an arrest but not everything goes according to plan. An accident, followed by an incident, gives Mycroft Holmes quite a fright.





	Flying High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@tonighti-mgoingtobejohnwayne](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40tonighti-mgoingtobejohnwayne).



> @LedByTHeUnknown bought this story at the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2018, and donated generously for charity. I received her prompt which was quite fun to work with.  
> @Bryntwedge kindly did a quick but thorough job of beta-ing it.

“Seriously Sherlock, you performed a post-mortem examination on a cat?“

Greg Lestrade leaned back in his chair to put some distance between the offending plastic bag, which Sherlock had flung onto his desk, and himself. The outline of a cat was clearly visible through the plastic.

“Miss Hooper helped. She’s… very fond of cats.“

“Right.“

Greg inched his chair further away. “And I’m now supposed to do… what?“

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Did your leave your brain at home again? Obviously, arrest the perpetrator.“

“What? Perpetrator?“

“The cat was clearly murdered. I could give you the details, but since you’ve only had a coffee since breakfast, it would upset your stomach to hear about it. As a result, you’d go home instead of making the arrest.“

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Sherlock, it’s not that I’m in favour of people who kill cats, but it’s not an offence where I can go in and arrest them.“

“Don’t be obtuse, Lestrade. The man who killed the cat is Wilbur Carmichael; you’ve had a warrant for him since last year, for a double murder that you failed to resolve… despite it being hardly a four,” Sherlock added with a sniff. “By killing the cat he gave away his whereabouts. He’s hiding in an empty house in Hackney.“

The DI had no idea how the autopsy of a cat would allow Sherlock to determine the location of this particular criminal but he hopped up from his chair enthusiastically. 

“Why didn’t you…?” Greg began, but then he waved his own question aside. “Ah, forget it.“

Rubbing his chin, he considered his options. He could ask for SCO19 to pick up Carmichael but he wanted to question the perp himself, and he was in need of a good arrest; the last one had been a while ago. Still, they needed at least some backup. 

Sherlock and John, the latter standing patiently next to Sherlock and smiling fondly at the consulting detective, were a good team to have at one’s side but an additional officer who knew how to do it by the book would be nice. Too bad that almost all of the officers seemed to have cleared the premises; on a late Friday afternoon before a bank holiday weekend, it wasn’t exactly surprising. 

Looking around the open work space Greg spotted a lone figure at a desk. The new Detective Constable in Gregson’s team, still working through some files.

“DC Maj?“

The young woman jumped up as he approached, and almost stood at attention. “Yes, Sir! DC Amanda Maj, Sir!”

“Relax, Maj. This is not the military.” 

“Oh, right. Sorry.” She blushed.

Greg gave her a smile which he hoped put her on ease. “These gentlemen are Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.” He gestured towards John and Sherlock. “And we could use some backup for an arrest.”  
John stepped on Sherlock’s toes in time to prevent a volley of deductions DC Maj most likely would be unhappy about. 

The young officer was glad to leave her paperwork behind for some action, and followed Greg to gear up. Within minutes they headed for the parking garage, and piled into a car. 

On their way to Hackney they designed their plan of action. John and Amanda would cause some ruckus at the front of the house, while Greg and Sherlock would grab their, undoubtedly bolting, thug at the backdoor. Sherlock had determined a probability of 96.8 percent that the scenario would work.

The house was located in a quiet street, right next to Well Street Common Park. Greg parked the car further down the road before they split up to get to their respective positions. 

A gust of wind hit Greg in the face as soon as he stepped out of the car. Looking up at the sky he noticed fast moving clouds which held the promise of rain. Good. It had been way too dry lately.  
Without being seen, Greg and Sherlock entered first the park and then the garden, climbing over the low fence. There was no need to be particularly quiet because the branches of some old trees rustling in the wind covered any noise they might have made. 

Getting into position, Sherlock behind a tall bush and Greg in the shade under an old oak tree, Sherlock sent a text to John stating that they were ready. From the garden, they couldn’t hear what had happened at the front – but in less than two minutes, they saw a shadow inside the house moving swiftly towards the French door that led into the garden. The door flew open, and, just as Sherlock had deduced, Carmichael sprinted directly towards them. 

Almost as one the DI and the consulting detective grabbed the man and tried to wrestle him to the ground. The six-foot-four brute had other ideas though. He gave Greg a mighty push that sent him stumbling backwards. At the same moment, a particular powerful gust of wind hit the oak tree and caused one of the thick branches to break. With a mighty crash the branch came down right on top of Greg, and everything went dark.

* * *

Mycroft was under the shower, touching himself in an intimate fashion, when he got the call. The ringtone, The Ride of the Valkyries by Richard Wagner, indicated that the call was an urgent one.  
Conditioned to abort any activity immediately, no matter time or circumstances, Mycroft left the shower rather wet and annoyingly unsatisfied.

“Yes?!” he barked into the phone. Towelling himself dry, he listened with growing alarm to John Watson’s report about an incident in Hackney, involving both his brother and DI Lestrade. Aside from a slight bruise, Sherlock was unharmed but the Inspector had been knocked unconscious by a falling branch. An ambulance was taking him to St. Mary’s Hospital this very minute for stitches and treating a concussion. 

“I’m on my way,” Mycroft told the ex-army doctor and ended the call before hurrying rather red-faced into his bedroom to get dressed. Not even under the threat of another trip to Les Miserables with his parents would Mycroft confess that he’d just been thinking about the silver-haired Inspector.

On the way to the hospital, Mycroft pondered his and Gregory’s relationship. They’d known each other for years but had only recently gotten closer, frequently meeting for lunch or a cup of coffee. One week prior, they’d visited a new exhibition at the Museum of Natural History and went to share dinner. Before they’d gone their separate ways, Gregory had kissed him. 

He’d leaned in and carefully fastened his mouth onto Mycroft’s. They whole affair had lasted perhaps two seconds but it had been enough to turn his world upside down. Gregory might have said something like, ‘I wanted to do this for quite some time’ and ‘goodnight’, but Mycroft still wasn’t sure. The one thing he could declare with absolute certainty was that the kiss had done him in completely. Within a blink of an eye he’d switched from being taken with Gregory to enamoured of him. 

Arriving at the hospital, John brought Mycroft up to speed. Sherlock had made a beeline for the next fish and chips place as soon as Carmichael had been put in a cell, leaving it to John to check on the injured DI and inform Mycroft of the incident. Why he had to inform Mycroft in the first place was beyond John’s comprehension, but he’d learned a long time ago that sometimes it was best not to question Sherlock. 

John showed Mycroft to the room where Greg was being treated. He then left to head home, already planning a refuelling stop at an Indian place en route. No sooner than John Watson had vacated the premises, Mycroft entered the surgery.  
Immediately, his penis plumped up hopefully when the object of earlier fantasies came into view.  
“Not now, traitor!” Mycroft told his unruly organ, and tried to stamp down the highly inconvenient, not to mention improper, reaction. 

“Mycroft!” 

Still, Greg Lestrade’s delighted cry was like grist to Mycroft’s mill. 

The medical assistant, who was just taking the DI’s blood pressure, glared at the new arrival; but a glance at the black identity card, embossed with the Royal seal in gold, sent him on his way immediately. The head physician surely was better qualified to deal with this particular patient and his visitor.

No sooner had they been left alone, than Mycroft stepped forward and took the hand that reached for his. 

“How are you doing, Gregory?” 

“My head hurts but I’m already stitched up.” He turned his head for Mycroft to see the dressing at the side of his head. “Three stitches. Nothing to worry about.”

The physician, who arrived a couple of minutes later, had a slightly different opinion though. They wanted to keep the DI in hospital for observation for the night due to a mild concussion. 

“I assure you, I’m fine,” Greg kept repeating, considering slapping away the light the doctor was shining in his eyes. “Bit of a headache, that’s all. Nothing a couple of paracetamol and a good night’s rest won’t cure.”

In the end Greg agreed to stay the night at the hospital and, once he’d be released, to take it easy at home. That Mycroft arranged a single-room, instead of having to share one with a handful of other patients, sped the process along considerably. 

Once Greg got settled in his room, Mycroft promised to call him the following day and pick him up for breakfast on Sunday. The deal was sealed with a kiss, which left both men grinning like idiots. 

* * *

The call came on very early Sunday morning. One moment Mycroft was sound asleep, the next he was struggling to pull on pants and socks, while calling for a car. At 3.20am Greg Lestrade had been spotted racing through London on his motorcycle. His destination was unknown because he kept changing directions without any recognisable pattern.  
When Mycroft was finally in a car, trying to calculate an intercept course, they were none the wiser where Greg might head next.  
It was almost another fifteen minutes of zigzagging through London until they finally had a destination. Why the DI had decided to drive round and round the IMAX theatre opposite Waterloo Station would probably remain a myth, but that’s where they finally found him. 

Fortunately, at that time of night the streets were mostly deserted; Cassandra, Mycoft’s driver for the night, adjusted the limousine’s speed to that of the Kawasaki effortlessly.

“I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky. Every minute every night and day, spread my wings and fly away, lalala lalala…”

Singing with great fervour, Greg paid no attention to the car next to him, until Mycroft lowered the window and stuck out his head. 

“Gregory, slow down,” he yelled, hoping he wouldn’t startle the man into an uncoordinated move, that’d lead to an accident 

As if it was most natural to drive at neck-breaking speed around a large roundabout at 4:00 o’clock in the morning, on a motorcycle, while talking to the front-seat passenger of a limousine that drove right next to him, Greg gave Mycroft one of his most dazzling smiles. 

“Mycroft, you’re here to race me?” 

“No, Gregory, I don’t want a race. Please, stop so we can talk.”

“Nice try, Mycroft, but I’m not falling for your trap. Five rounds, starting now.”

The Kawasaki accelerated even more, and so did the limousine. 

Mycroft clung to his seat while only the car’s extraordinary chassis and its weight, as well as Cassandra’s driving skill, prevented them all from tipping sideways. 

“What are you doing, Gregory? Please, pull over.” Mycroft wasn’t certain his voice was loud enough, and even if it was, there was no way of knowing whether Greg would do more than just laugh. 

“Fall back a bit,” Mycroft ordered his driver. “I don’t want him to break his neck.” How many rounds had they completed yet? Three? Four? Mycroft didn’t know.

“I’m winning!” Greg yelled and laughed out loud, looking over his shoulder at the limousine. Looking backwards, the DI failed to notice a convertible with its top down, approaching the roundabout from Waterloo Bridge. The driver ignored Greg’s right of way and completely underestimated the motorcycle’s speed. 

Mycroft shouted, “Look out, Greg!”, and Cassandra slammed on the breaks just as Greg turned his head to face forward again. 

Greg had only time to cry out in alarm, before the Kawasaki’s front-wheel hit the bumper of the car and he was airborne. Shocked by the sudden collision, the driver of the convertible took his foot from the accelerator, and a moment later, after having completed a flip, Greg landed in the back-seat of the car. With a screech of its tires, the convertible came to a complete stop, and the limousine right behind it. The motorcycle smashed into a concrete wall, parts flying in all directions. 

Once the noise of the crashing motorcycle had faded, all that could be heard was the shocked silence of the four people in the two cars. Mycroft regained his wits first. He clambered out of the limousine and ran over to look inside the convertible. Sandwiched between the seats, obviously somewhat dazed and confused, Greg looked up at Mycroft, who noticed immediately that the pupils of those beautiful brown eyes were unnaturally enlarged.

Mycroft extracted Greg from his precarious position with utmost care, and only after he’d felt the man’s neck thoroughly with the tips of his fingers, did he allow him to remove his helmet. To his relief, the bandage from the hospital, that covered the stitches at the side of Greg’s head, was still in place and not soaked with blood.

“Gregory, talk to me. Are you alright?”

The grey hair sticking in all directions, Greg smiled sweetly at Mycroft before he asked, “did I win?” 

Mycroft shook his head. “If that’s your concern, yes, you did.” 

Greg opened his mouth, probability about to ask what winning that race entitled, but Mycroft shushed him by putting a finger to his lips. 

“We’ll talk later. I’m going to take care of things but you better hide before the police get here. Whatever drug you took, I’m certain you colleagues won’t approve.”

“I had a couple of brownies, spiced with hashish,” Greg explained before he caught sight of the bits and pieces that had once been his beloved motorcycle. “It’s kaput,” he said sadly. 

Mycroft stared at Greg, dumbfounded, but then hurried to get him to the limousine. Sirens of a quickly approaching patrol car could already be heard. 

* * *

Mycroft could convince the police to suspend any investigations regarding the anonymous driver of the motorcycle, while the owner of said motorcycle was locked inside a soundproof compartment inside the limousine. Cassandra had offered to put the DI on the back-seat and sit on him to keep him quiet, but Mycroft hadn’t cared for this particular solution. 

Therefore, once they reached Mycroft’s house and retrieved Greg from his prison, the man was somewhat subdued.

Mycroft sent Cassandra on her way and ushered Greg inside his house. “Perhaps you’d care to explain why on earth you’d eat hashish brownies.”

“Mrs Hudson made them,” Greg told him. “She picked me up from the hospital in a fucking sports car because Sherlock and John were otherwise engaged. She said, she baked some brownies for me too. Didn’t know she made those kind of brownies.”

“I have an inkling she didn’t intended for you to sample this particular recipe,” Mycroft grumbled, intending to have a heart-to-heart with Mrs Hudson later but deciding that, for now, he needed to concentrate on the task at hand.

Half way up the stairs, most of Greg’s good mood returned, and he started smiling fondly at Mycroft again, who, despite the circumstances, found it difficult to resist the lure. Still, he managed to lead Greg into the bathroom.

“You’re very handsome,” Greg purred, while Mycroft peeled him out of his leather-jacket. “Your eyes are pretty and I love your hair.” To put emphasis on his words, Greg reached out and ran his fingers through the soft strands.

Mycroft blushed, and tried to focus but no sooner than he’d put the leather-jacket aside, he felt Greg unbuttoning his shirt. 

“What… what are you doing, Gregory?”

“You undress me, I undress you. It’s only fair,” Greg replied. Mycroft didn’t know what to say, not the least because he was distracted by both the clever fingers making quick work of his button-down but also the tip of Greg’s tongue slightly poking out in concentration. 

His chest was already exposed to Greg’s keen eyes when he found his wits again. With deft moves he pulled the t-shirt Greg wore of his head, and froze. He’d known that Greg was in good shape, but aside from the tone of the man’s torso, Mycroft discovered that silver chest hair was really most becoming. 

Greg might have been drugged but he was very much capable of recognizing the desire that all but lit up Mycroft’s eyes. All of a sudden, the notion that Greg should shower and sleep was completely forgotten. It was stupid, it was foolish, but Mycroft couldn’t help himself. He needed to touch the perfectly furred chest. 

Greg groaned when the cool, elegant fingers glided over his skin, turning his nipples into hard, sensitive peaks. 

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered, before he took hold of the pale shoulders, pulled him close and kissed him. 

Plastered to Greg’s chest, while being kissed silly, Mycroft found himself with two handfuls of leather-clad buns. Kneading the firm muscle in the rhythm of their kiss, he imagined them exposed to his view, spreading them and kissing what was hidden in-between

When the kiss finally broke, both men were panting and their faces were flushed. 

“We really shouldn’t,” Mycroft managed. “Not while you’re under the influence of drugs.”

“Uhum,” Greg agreed and pressed his crotch against Mycroft’s. He’d read that hashish could influence ones libido but he doubted it had anything to do with the desire that coursed through his body at this particular moment. 

With a groan that was fifty percent desire and fifty percent regret, Mycroft pulled away. Cradling Greg’s face in the palms of his hands, he caressed the cheeks with his thumbs. 

“I want nothing more than ravish you right here and now, but it’s wrong.” With a tilt of his head he indicated the bulge in his trousers. “You did this to me, you beautiful man. I desire you, and want,” Mycroft hesitated for a moment before he spoke those words he might have regarded ridiculous before, “to make love to you for hours. I want to come with your name on my lips, and I hope that the moment you spill all over me or into me, you’ll shout my name. But let’s wait until the drugs no longer influence your judgement and behaviour.” 

“Oh god!” Greg trembled from Mycroft’s words. “Do you always have to be the reasonable one?” he asked without spite.

“Sherlock has certainly accused me of being so often enough.”

“Ugh, talking about your brother’s a certain way to put a damper on things efficiently.” 

Mycroft grinned lopsidedly. “Shower and then sleep, okay? I’d like you to share my bed. After what happened I rather want you close by.” 

“Deal,” Greg agreed. “But perhaps you should stop undressing me. I think I can manage just fine by myself, and we won’t get side-tracked by you investigating.”

Greg winked and Mycroft blushed once again, but he very much agreed with Greg’s proposal. Less than twenty minutes later they crawled into his bed together, and, after the most meagre of a good-night-kisses, fell asleep.

* * *

Mycroft tiptoed into his bedroom on socked feet, determined not to disturb Greg. The curtains were closed but enough daylight filtered into the room for him to see that Greg Lestrade’s face was relaxed in his sleep. Even in the dimly lit room the detective’s silver-grey hair almost shone against the background of the dark blue pillow. ‘Like moonlight’, Mycroft thought.

Lying on his side one hand tucked under the pillow, Greg was breathing evenly. The crisis had passed.

“You gave me quite a fright,” Mycroft whispered under his breath, reaching out as if to caress the sleeping man’s face. So close that he could feel the warmth of the stubbly cheek, Mycroft traced the outline of the strong jaw with his fingertips. 

Becoming aware of the other man’s presence, Greg’s breathing pattern began to change and he opened his eyes. Stretching and yawning mightily, he looked at Mycroft with still tired but clear eyes.

“Hey, do you happen to know where I can get coffee and some greasy breakfast?”

“It’s past lunch-time.”

“Just woke up, so I rather want breakfast. Please.”

Mycroft nodded. “I already made coffee,” he said. “No bacon I fear, but there are eggs and toast if you like.”

Greg sat up and reached for Mycroft’s hand. Looking at him earnestly, he smiled softly. “I’d like coffee, eggs, and toast, but then I want to pick up where we left off.”

Mycroft could do nothing but smile at the handsome man because he was very much on board with that particular plan.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was this: If possible Mystrade. Mrs. Hudson accidentally gifted Greg brownies made with her "herbal soothers" after he gets hurt at work. Any rating.


End file.
